Handle With Care
by bladecatcher86
Summary: Just because a man has a conscience doesn't mean he needs to listen to it. [Jack POV. Rated M for violence and some language.]


**AUTHOR'S NOTE:** I don't own _BioShock_, its characters, or anything else affiliated with the franchise. I own a copy of the game and that's as far as it goes.

This short one-shot has actually been sitting in my computer for a couple years! Every now and then I'd patch it up and add and subtract a few things, but eventually it just kind of fell by the wayside and I never got around to finishing it until this week.

The following has been rated **M** for language, depicted violence, and a heavily implied act of violence that is only implied because I simply didn't have the heart (or the stomach) to describe it any further.

* * *

**HANDLE WITH CARE**

I had to give the son of a bitch credit – even down to what I figured had to be his last throes of health, he still wasn't going down without a fight.

I took cover behind a stack of crates as the Big Daddy tossed yet another proximity mine out of his seemingly endless supply in my general direction. Where did this guy find all the damned things? I had only been able to find, what, five or six just lying around? The mental image of a Big Daddy pulling some money out of his pocket for the vending machines like a _normal_ person seemed unlikely somehow. And I certainly wasn't about to blow my hard-earned cash on any at the Circus of Values.

I had been running low on machine-gun ammo. I also needed to keep my EVE stock as high as possible. I figured I could never have too much of something that turned my left hand into a flamethrower; to think, a week ago I'd only ever seen something like that in comic books.

Plus, I was hungry. And all there was to eat down here in Rapture was potato chips sold by the snack-sized bag in the vending machines, which was barely enough to keep me going. Needless to say, I had to keep buying those. Also needless to say: I was getting really goddamned tired of the taste of potato chips. Some utopia this turned out to be – a guy can't even get a decent meal in this town.

Thankfully, this particular Big Daddy wasn't the type to come charging at me full speed ahead like a bull attacking a matador. He preferred to stand back and let his proximity mines do the dirty work, apparently failing to realize that I, unlike his weapon of choice, am capable of moving around and thus can avoid explosions. Mister, you have a massive _rivet gun_ that can probably tear my flesh to shreds in mere seconds. But go ahead, keep lobbing your mines at me. For God's sake, they didn't even knock the Fontaine Fisheries sign off the wall.

As the Big Dumbass reached to pull out another mine, I decided that it was time to finish him off once and for all. I stepped out from behind the crates with my trusty machine-gun at the ready, took aim, and squeezed the trigger. A loud stream of bullets erupted from the muzzle and swarmed my opponent as he made a break for the small staircase leading to the wharf. He couldn't escape. The bullets pierced his armor and he stumbled forward, his momentum sending him tumbling down the stairs. I waited for a moment before moving on, just to be sure that he wouldn't get back up and start unloading on me with that rivet gun. No dice. He'd made his last stand, and now he was still.

And then there she was. The Little Sister emerged from the shadows and hurried down the stairs, begging the Big Daddy to wake up. With her frilly blue dress, pale skin, and long black hair, she almost reminded me of an undead Alice in Wonderland with a lousy dye job. As she realized that her bodyguard wasn't responding, she began to mourn the dearly departed "Mr. Bubbles." Mr. Bubbles? Cute nickname. Not exactly what I'd call an eight-foot-tall behemoth in an oversized diving suit carrying a heavy rivet gun or with a giant drill where his right forearm was supposed to be. Then again, I haven't taken the time to really get to _know_ these Big Daddies. I'm sure we'd be great pals if they'd stop trying to bore holes through my sternum.

As I reloaded my machine gun with a fresh clip, I contemplated things I'd heard during my, shall we say, _adventures_ in the Medical Pavilion. "Veritable ADAM factories," Steinman had called the Little Sisters. Atlas had referred to them as "Tenenbaum's little Frankensteins" and told me just because they looked like little girls didn't mean they were. I remembered rescuing the first one I'd met, but somehow it just didn't seem right to harvest them with Tenenbaum standing right there in the room with me. I already had to put up with Atlas nagging me about saving his family, which I suppose is the least I could do for a man helping a stranger safely navigate through Rapture, but I still wasn't in the mood for any more lectures. It made me feel like Pinocchio struggling to tell a lie because he knew Jiminy Cricket was looking over his shoulder.

I mean, Tenenbaum hadn't even bothered asking me nicely – or at least I don't think she did. Would it have killed her to say "please"? I guess it would have, because instead she said "_bitte_." What the hell does that even mean? I don't know any German. I've never even wanted to learn any. I can't remember the reason why, but I'm sure it had something to do with not wanting to be seen as a Nazi sympathizer. The point is, I'd have at least settled for "would you kindly."

"Free them from their torment," Tenenbaum had said when she practically begged me to save the Little Sister. Strange, really – the ones I'd seen thus far seemed rather happy being invincible ADAM factories, humming little tunes and skipping around Rapture with "Mr. Bubbles" always around to keep them company. And wouldn't death also be an efficient means of ending whatever torment they were actually going through? In fact, given that the rescue process makes them vulnerable and also lets them live with their presumably traumatizing memories intact, death might even be preferable. But hey, if that first Little Sister I'd rescued ends up being eaten alive by a Splicer or something, that's on Tenenbaum's conscience, not mine. She's the one who told me to take away the source of their invincibility in the middle of an underwater city populated by mutants and gun turrets.

And then there's the matter of the ADAM itself, the substance that lets me acquire more plasmid powers and can improve my health and hacking ability and what have you. If I'm going to get out of this city alive and in one piece – I'd rather not have one of my arms or legs ripped off, after all – I'm going to need those powers and attributes. And if I'm going to get those powers and attributes, I need ADAM. Oh, I can get a little bit from saving the Little Sisters, but those "slugs," or whatever Steinman called them, can give me so much more. I already had fire and thunder shooting out of my hand. I'd even started getting the hang of telekinesis. What else could be available? Ice, maybe? Or water? And how many more of these superpowers are out there? Every kid grows up wanting to be Superman, don't they? Well, this was my chance to become him.

I approached the Little Sister and scooped her up as she stared up at me in fright. There was a faint voice somewhere in the back of my mind – mine or Tenenbaum's? I couldn't tell – trying to talk me out of harvesting the ADAM.

_She's only a child!_ the voice tells me.

Well, the one I'd rescued before seemed somewhat normal, I suppose. And yet… how could I know that I wasn't holding what was essentially a package with ADAM inside? Hadn't I only rescued her to get Tenenbaum off my case? And how would I know that I could trust anything she said anyway? Wasn't she the one who'd created them to begin with? That was what Atlas had said. Besides, Rapture was practically bursting at the seams with mad scientists. It seemed that Andrew Ryan wasn't one to give a damn about ethics. I wouldn't put it past them to create the Little Sisters in all their "cuteness" and "innocence" just to make everyone else think twice about harvesting ADAM and collecting superpowers.

_But you could save her,_ the voice insists. _You could take her away from this place. Maybe raise her as your own… finally have a family._

Frankly, I would have preferred my children to be my own flesh and blood. And as far back as I can remember, which admittedly isn't very far as my memory is rather blurry, I've been alone. So I simply never became the type that got attached to people. Both of my parents were missing in action. I've never had any close friends. I've sure as hell never been in love. I don't see much of a point in any of it. No matter how pleasant your memories are, or how deep your emotional connections may be, people will _always_ leave you in the end – no exceptions. And to top all that off, I had more important things to worry about than whether or not I could come out of this with a _family_. Like, for instance, whether or not I'd even come out _alive_.

_To hell with it,_ I thought. _I don't need a family. I don't need anyone. I need to rely on my strength and my wits. Just like I always have._

My choice was clear. But now what? How would I get the ADAM from her? Here was my ticket out of Rapture, and it was all wrapped up inside a squirming 7-year-old girl. I needed to get that slug out of her body and into my hand somehow, and as far as I knew the plasmid Tenenbaum had given me wouldn't do that.

Which meant I would need something sharp.

**THE END**


End file.
